


Eyes still are brightest

by blcwriter



Series: Eyes are Still Brightest 'Verse [1]
Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Elevator Sex, Image Heavy, M/M, Originally Posted on LiveJournal, fic import
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-15
Updated: 2013-12-15
Packaged: 2018-01-04 18:17:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blcwriter/pseuds/blcwriter





	Eyes still are brightest

Comment-porn fic for today's Team Jones Daily Captain and Doctor. With source material like this, wouldn't you write porn too?

\---

Karl can't believe this. Except, well, he can. Because 1) with all the _speculation_ out there, it was inevitable someone would ask Chris his opinion about what makes a good handjob and 2) Chris _said_ he would one-up Karl on the microphone thing.

"Sure," says Chris with a grin, then demonstrates. Ably.

"First, see, you've got to get a good grip, gently." Chris cups one hand, and _fuck_ he's wearing Karl's cufflinks, as he cups and curls those long marvelous fingers on his bottom hand, all while wearing that opal ring Karl’d bought at a stall in the Queen Street Mall in Brisbane, only partly a joke because it was the only blue thing he’d seen that came close to Chris’ eyes. "And then you just sort of curl, cup and stroke all at once. You want to rub at the perineum, between the balls and the asshole, with the base of your palm," he says, licking his lips as he does just that with his hand, "while you're kind of tickling and massaging the balls with your fingers." His index, middle and ring fingers make this kind of come-hither motion. Karl’s considering crawling over the table. Forget _hither._ Try for-fucking-ever.

The hall's gone utterly silent, except for the girl who asked the question. She just kind of whimpers. Karl knows how she feels.

Chris, meanwhile, has brought his other hand into the picture.

"And then there's the cockstroke," he says, his expression totally serious, like he’s giving a lecture on grammar and dangling participles, like he did at the last con the cast did together. That bracelet Hunter made Chris-- the wonky one with the string and the little red balls that Chris won’t take off, never mind how stupid it looks-- is sticking out above his white cuff, a gorgeous juxtaposition that makes Karl want to throw him down on the table and take him right now. It’d likely send the conference pitchers and glasses of complementary water and silver dishes of candy all over the place. He’d love to see _that_ vid up on YouTube.

Meanwhile, Chris is lecturing on, his gravelly baritone ever-so-serious.

"You've got to get a good grip, right around the middle, but leave your index finger free for the top. Lots of people think it should be the thumb, but I think the index finger gives you more flexibility, because it's smaller and lets you really play with the slit in the tip, in case your partner’s sensitive there. Plus, if they’re uncircumcised, well, you’ve got more ability to play with the folds. And then, well, you just have to find someone you like and..." he pauses, licks his lips, and lets that serious expression falter a bit. He winks at the girl and gives her a smile, the kind that makes panties melt-- Karl's boxers are already strangling him under the table.

Chris, though, is almost done with his lecture.

"Practice makes perfect. You just kind of work on the rhythm, a combination of tugging and stroking and twisting with a bit of rubbing and pulling the balls—you try to get everything going at once, nice and smooth, and don't forget to use plenty of lube." As he lectures, his hands are making the motions, and John, sitting between them, shifts in his seat, a low _ungh_ escaping him. Simon, on Karl’s other side, mutters “Christ, someone tell me they’ve got this on vid, I’ve got to send this to the wife,” under his breath.

After a long, dramatic pause, Chris not-at-all innocently looks over at Karl, says "Or spit, if you’re the type who can fit a whole mike in your mouth,” and licks his lips oh-so-lasciviously at Karl, with a grand, dramatic wink. There’s a titter of laughter that runs through the hall—they’ve all seen the vid, Karl’s entirely sure.

"Any more questions?"

The girl squeaks, and several other girls in the audience fan themselves.

Karl merely raises an eyebrow, and somehow, God knows only how, his voice isn’t cracked. “You’ve shown us you can give a virtual handjob, sure, Mr. Pine, but it’s not quite fellating a microphone.”

Chris, the sonofabitch, eyes the one they’ve got sitting in front of Karl.

“I don’t know, Karl. Yours looks kind of small. I think I’ll just fellate my own fist.”

And then—he fucking _does_ , with lots of tonguing and swirling and sucking and this evil, evil glint in his eye and a wink at Karl that makes Simon, John, Zoe, hell, even JJ all blush flamingly red. Zach just says, aloud, where the microphones catch him, “Bitch, you have got to give me some lessons.”

The moderator calls a break after the girl who asked the hand-jobbing question actually faints.

\---

They get two floors up in the elevator before Karl hits the emergency stop.

“Why Karl, what’s the probl-“

Karl shuts him up by dint of two fingers shoved in his mouth. Chris, good man that he is, sucks with abandon, tonguing and teething and getting him sopping wet, drool already limning Karl’s wrist as his other hand scrambles hard at Chris buckle.

“Whore. Fucking slut. Can’t believe you,” Karl pants, yanking and cursing because Chris’ pants _won’t come off_ and Jesus, if he can’t get inside him _right fucking now_ he’s going to explode.

Chris nips at his fingers, then sucks even harder, batting Karl’s fingers away as he grinds back into Karl’s hips, his firm, rounded ass teasing Karl’s aching cock even more than he already has, sitting there, using all those damned words and bandying his vocab with Quinto during the panel, and being so fucking smart and wearing Karl’s shirt and his cufflinks because they’d been practically late for their call, morning sex having been too fucking good to give up.

_Mine, mine, mine, mine_ is what Karl wants to tattoo all over Chris’ body, as if the fact that Chris wears that silly ring and the bracelet his kid made isn’t enough, as if the fact that Chris carelessly snags Karl’s clothes and cufflinks and lets Karl fix his collars and tell him “that suit, not this one, you’ve worn black three premieres in a row,” but there’s more important things right now, like his fingers coming out of Chris’ mouth in a glad obscene pop because his pants are finally down and his gorgeous ass, pale and freckled and dotted with moles and pushing back and _oh, Jesus_ this never gets old.

“Unlike you,” Chris retorts, and god, he’s so sassy, Karl can’t be helped when he’s never quite sure what he’s mumbling aloud in his haste to get into Chris’ body because fuck it’s good, always so good.

Chris grabs Karl’s hand, pulls it around, licks it and licks it and licks it like he’s a cat with its cream, sucking each finger and laving the palm before wrapping it around his own cock—and yes, Karl’s a goner—always will be with this kid, who’s got his hands on the wall for leverage, one with Karl’s ring as blue as Chris’ eyes and one ratty child’s bracelet—and both with Karl’s cufflinks because “Dude, you are classy, I want to be like you when I grow up,” he had said with a silly, shy smile as he’d snagged them and one of Karl’s shirts as they’d gotten dressed just this morning. He pushes back of the mirrored wall of the elevator Karl’s stopped and Karl’s got two hands, not just the one.

It’s awkward, but he reaches around, fondles Chris’ balls, watches his face in the mirror as Chris’ hands claw and leave prints on the mirror.

“Base of the palm right between the balls and the asshole?” he taunts, panting, and fuck, he can feel his own dick slamming against Chris’ prostate if he times the stroke of his hand and the thrust of his cock in Chris’ asshole just right. Come to think of it, that’s a pretty wide railing lining the walls, wide enough that the flexible Chris could maybe just balance…

“Up you go, princess,” he says, boosting Chris up, and maybe Chris is a little bit mashed, his face pressed into the mirror and mouth a wide _o_ , eyes electric with shock and lust in the glass, but now Karl’s got a perfect grip on his cock and his balls and he’s hitting his sweet spot every damned time, Chris’ knees spread almost impossibly wide.

Karl will never be one to shoot down anyone questioning the merits of fucking someone that much younger than him.

There’s a squawk from the intercom, and Karl manages to say he has no idea why they’ve stopped but that they’re okay, no one’s panicking yet, that yes, it’s him and Mr. Pine, and no worries, nobody’s mad or upset, and then the thing crackles off with a promise to check back in ten minutes or so. Thank the lord Chris threw his jacket over the camera first thing. There’s YouTube and then there’s Pam Anderson vids.

One more twist-yank-curl of his hand—he knows Chris’ cues, just like Chris knows all his, and Chris yelps, one of his knees losing purchase. He spasms and writhes and Karl’s howling and spurting and he pushes them both into the wall, panting and moaning as they try not to collapse into a heap.

Breath gathered, they tuck themselves back into their pants, then Karl pulls out a hankie from his inside breast pocket and wipes the worst of the sweat from the mirrors. Chris pulls the stop button off and punches their floor—the elevator starts up and they get to their floor even before management notes that they’re moving again. Chris announces, so nicely—“No, no idea why, but it’s okay. If you wouldn’t mind telling the con folks we’re going to use the bathroom and will be down in fifteen minutes or so?”

There’s puzzled agreement, and Chris snags his jacket off of the camera on the way out. His cufflinks and ring flash on the mirror-lined walls as they go. So does his smile.

His eyes still are brightest.

\--

And because I just COULD NOT LEAVE IT HERE, [there's a sequel](http://blcwriter.livejournal.com/49604.html).  SCHMOOP FACTOR LEVELS SET TO 11.


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